


I Broke Apart My Insides, I've Got No Soul To Sell

by twisting_vine_x



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Brief allusion to past non-con (Hell), Graphic memories of torture (Hell), I do not actually endorse any of this, Knifeplay, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Potential dubcon (Dean’s lack of soul and Castiel’s state of mind), Rimming, Rough Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisting_vine_x/pseuds/twisting_vine_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after Sam Winchester goes to Hell, with the world once again hanging in balance and Castiel hating himself for the decisions he’s been forced into making, Dean Winchester agrees to loan out his soul to power up one of Heaven’s weapons. It’s an alright plan except for the fact that, with Dean’s soul out of the picture – and with Castiel exhausted from the war, and overwhelmed by the pressure of never once letting himself be anything but the perfect little solider – Dean and Castiel seem to be heading towards something that Castiel’s not sure either of them can come back from.</p><p>- - -</p><p>(A/N: This is set right after ‘My Heart Will Go On’ [with spoilers for all of season six], and was written for the dc_dystopia challenge on Livejournal. Also, the title comes from ‘Closer’ by Nine Inch Nails, and awesome artwork for this story can be found here: http://rednarcissism.livejournal.com/1933.html).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“You’re running yourself ragged, Cassie dear. And you can’t win a war if you’ve got nothing left to fight with.”

Castiel wants to make a crack about what exactly Balthazar can do with those incredibly helpful words of wisdom – Dean, he thinks distantly, would probably be pleased with the attempt at sarcasm – but he simply stares down at the ground instead, breathing through the exhaustion that seems to seep into his very Grace, and fighting the urge to lean into the angel seated next to him. For all that their relationship may have been strained when the war began, Balthazar has since proven himself to be someone that Castiel can actually rely on, and as they sit on the edge of a cliff and stare at the forested valley below, Castiel cannot even muster the energy to get angry.

Because Balthazar is right. Castiel is exhausting himself. And yet nothing Castiel could possibly do would change the fact that he has somehow become Heaven’s poster child for free will.

“If I stop fighting, we will lose.”

“And if you’re too exhausted to kill Raphael when the time comes, we all lose, anyway.”

Balthazar says it gently, but the words still seem to cut through him, and Castiel helplessly closes his eyes as he finds himself overwhelmed by a wave of self-loathing – finds himself suddenly and fiercely resenting the fact that this horrific battlefield has become his life. Three angels had been destroyed by him during the last battle – one of whom he had known well, years ago, long before Castiel had been commanded to rescue the Righteous Man from Hell – and even though his vessel’s hands are no longer covered in blood, he still feels like the stain will never wash off completely.

“I am tired, Balthazar.”

“I know, Cassie.”

“The constant knowledge that one wrong decision could –”

He trails off before he can finish the thought, and when Balthazar leans in closer and nudges their shoulders together, the simple contact – the silent support – is more appreciated than he could possibly say. Castiel has a moment of wondering just how supportive Balthazar would be if he knew about the situation Castiel is in with Crowley, and Castiel bites down on a surge of nausea as he keeps his eyes closed, wondering how he could have ever let his existence come to this.

\- - -  
 _  
“I’m considering disobedience.”_

_Castiel clearly remembers the moment when Heaven no longer held the answers he was seeking, and even if that may not have been when his descent started – even if his downfall had been set in motion the instant his Grace brushed against Dean’s soul in the Pit – it was still those words that sealed his fate._

_And Castiel should have known that his existence would never again be easy. He should have remembered that the Morning Star had voiced his doubts – had failed to find his answers in Heaven – and had been eternally punished for it. He should have known then that his future would be awash with pain and blood, with divided loyalties that threatened to tear him apart, emotions that no angel should have been able to feel._

_In retrospect, he should have always known that Dean Winchester would be his downfall.  
_  
\- - -

Sometimes, before he can remind himself that such thoughts will lead him to nowhere but madness, Castiel wonders just how many angels have died at his hands. 

There have been so many battles, and Castiel cannot help but wonder how long this is going to go on. How many times he is going to negotiate treaties and peace agreements and moments of respite, and then just have to go on killing when the peace treaties fall through, as angel after angel is bullied or coerced into believing that a second apocalypse is the right direction for Earth.

“Cassie? Still with me?”

Castiel stares at Balthazar for a long moment, and then stares at the bodies lying around him. His silver sword is stained with red, and Castiel bites down a wave of nausea as he stares down at the countless lives they have just taken – human vessels, with human souls still inside them, complete with the Grace of the angels who have now been slaughtered – and then he nearly chokes on a sudden wave of gratitude when Balthazar rests a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Alright, you. Let’s get back to base and get you rested up.”

“You go. I’ll join you soon.”

Balthazar stares at him for a moment until he nods, and then he’s gone, leaving Castiel with a mess of human bodies and burned out wings that Castiel knows will haunt him for months to come. He lets himself sink to a crouch on the bloodied grass, trying to himself that it’s all worth it, that this war is necessary – that Dean Winchester is on this planet, and for that reason alone Raphael must not be allowed to burn the Earth – but with the blood of his sisters and brothers smeared across his trench coat, Castiel folds the outlines of his wings around his vessel and finds himself desperate for even a hint of reassurance from Dean that the human still cares for him.

\- - -  
 _  
Even ruined as he is by the Hell that’s been branded into him, this human soul still burns more brightly than anything Castiel has ever seen, an explosion of light in a dark chasm, and Castiel finds himself wondering how anyone so pure could have ever been sent to eternal damnation._

_“Let – me – go –”_

_The human body is struggling against him, drenched in blood and filth and reeking of Hell, but its struggles are nothing to the power of Castiel’s angelic strength, even weakened as he is from his flight back to the First Circle. It’s not until Castiel reaches for his Grace – pulling his own form back together, making himself whole again before he begins to repair the shattered body in his arms – that he realizes that the human has stopped struggling, and is lying limp against him._

_“Dean?”_

_There’s no reply – no echoing response to fill up this eternal darkness – so Castiel simply reaches for his Grace and curls a hand around the curve of Dean Winchester’s shoulder – and then finds himself staggering with the force of Dean’s soul surging against this, a burst of pure sensation that leaves Castiel gasping for air he doesn’t need, even as Dean whimpers and pushes himself up hard against Castiel, burying his face into Castiel’s chest and holding on tight as the wounds across his body begin to close._

_Distantly, Castiel is aware of the physical sensations – Dean’s body pressed against his, Dean’s voice making pained noises in his ears, the press of Dean’s mouth against his neck as the human pants for oxygen – but all Castiel can feel is the sensation of Dean’s soul molding against his Grace, fitting up against him as though it was always meant to be there, and Castiel finds himself squeezing his eyes shut against the unexpected sensation of moisture streaming down his face, even as his body shakes with a sense of rightness that he has never experienced before._

_Castiel can still clearly remember the first time he ever felt anything. And it wasn’t on Earth.  
_  
\- - -

“Cas! What the hell, man – I’ve been praying for hours. We’ve maybe got a lead on that ‘mother of all’ nonsense –”

Castiel can only stare at Dean as the human pulls a map out across the table, and then Castiel closes his eyes as he fights the urge to sink onto the motel room bed, every inch of his human body screaming with exhaustion. He wants to reach out and grab Dean – wants to curl his hands around Dean’s shoulders and shake him, wants to get it through his head that Castiel cannot always be at his beck and call – but instead he simply takes a steadying breath and manages to keep standing upright.

Because faltering has never been an option. He understands this, clearly, after months and months of conflict, after too many dark nights spent in negotiations with the king of Hell – that if he falters and fails, if he cannot find the strength to make the decisions that must be made, then the world will burn, and it will all be his fault.

“Whoa, Cas – you okay?”

He must have swayed slightly, because Dean is suddenly looking at him with concern – and Castiel ignores the low wave of heat that sweeps through him, the almost painful surge of pure aching need that comes from having Dean’s eyes trained on him like that. Despite the fact that Dean has been gone from Lisa for almost a year, he and Castiel have never once approached the topic of what he and Castiel had been before Sam went to Hell – never once tried to figure out what all those nights meant, the random motels, the back of the Impala, the way Dean would curl up around him at three in the morning, when nobody else was around to see – and to have Dean look at him like this, with that hint of concern and uncertainty in his eyes, is enough to make Castiel ache from the inside out.

“I was fighting a battle. I could not leave until that was completed.”

It’s not really an answer, but Dean seems to accept it with a nod, and Castiel finds himself hurting inside all over again. All he needs to get him through this – the one person in the universe for whom Castiel would spend all eternity fighting the legions of Heaven – is standing right in front of him, and Castiel cannot even remember the last time they had a conversation that wasn’t related to war and murder and bloodshed.

“Cas? Still with me?”

Castiel stares at Dean for an exhausted moment, wondering how their relationship could have ever reached this point. Heaven had commanded him to save Dean Winchester – and that is something he can never regret – but all he has now is stilted half-conversations with the man in front of him, mixed with the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, and it takes everything that Castiel has to not fall to his knees and beg Dean to take him back.

Because he can’t do this alone. And yet, somehow, that’s exactly what he’s expected to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean may not remember their ascent from Hell – may not remember the way his soul had reached out to meld with Castiel’s Grace – but Castiel does.

“You know I’m gonna try to fuck you, right?”

And, as Castiel studies the man standing in front of him, so far removed from the soul Dean had been when Castiel rescued him from the pit, Castiel feels a surge of such weariness it’s all he can do to not close his eyes and just give up on everything.

But he can’t. Because – as he keeps reminding himself – closing his eyes and giving up will never be an option. If he concedes defeat – if he lets himself be weak, even for a moment – then he knows that the Apocalypse will begin all over again. And after everything these humans have been through, and after everyone who has died to give the Winchesters a chance to save the world, Castiel owes it to them to remain strong, and to continue making the decisions that are surely damning him to Hell for eternity.

“Come on, Cas. Not gonna leave me high and dry here, are you?”

With Dean’s soul on loan to power up one of Castiel’s weapons – another decision that, although Dean agreed to it of his own free will, is yet another indication of just how desperate Castiel can feel himself becoming, taking advantage of the single purest thing he has ever seen – the crude phrasing slips from between his smirking lips without any sign of repentance, and Castiel warily studies the man in front of him, attempting to ignore the slight increase in his vessel’s heart rate. It will take time for Balthazar to finish his work on the weapon, and if the way Dean is eyeing Castiel is any indication, then it might have been a good idea to discuss their relationship before Dean had loaned out his soul.

“You can stop frowning any time you want, you know. I know you’ve missed me.”

And the desperately dangerous thing is, Castiel knows far well that he has spent two long and lonely years aching to be close to Dean, in every possible way. He would easily relinquish a portion of his heavenly power to cradle Dean’s soul against his Grace, and his human body is craving touch with a fierceness that scares him, drowning him in a relentless thrum of desperate need that threatens to burn him up from the inside out.

“I know better than anyone the darkness that lays within you, Dean. Do you really expect me to indulge such self-loathing at the expense of my body?”

“I think you’ll always do whatever it takes to make me happy.”

“You have a very high opinion of yourself.”

“You killed fifty thousand people for me. Don’t try to get cute now.”

Dean slides a step closer, a dangerous smirk still curling around his lips, and Castiel glances around the panic room, wondering how long it will be before Bobby and Sam return from their supply run. He does not wish to restrain Dean, but he can feel his body begin to burn against his will, and he does not know if he is strong enough to hold out for long against such relentless pursuit.

“It has been two years since you went to live with Lisa. Do you really expect me to let you touch me now, of all times?”

“I think you will.”

“You are delusional.”

“And you’re desperate.”

Castiel’s human body has been his own for several years now, and he recognizes the way his lungs seize up in his chest, and the way his hands begin to tremble at his sides. The symptoms of panic are feelings he’s become much too familiar with, and as Dean’s words cut through him with the precision of a scalpel, Castiel desperately hopes that his eyes aren’t as wide as he thinks they are.

“That’s what I thought.”

From the way Dean is grinning at him, all teeth and a dangerous glint in his eyes, Castiel is not doing as good a job at feigning nonchalance as he would have hoped. He hates himself for taking a step backward, especially since all it does is press him against the wall; and when Dean takes one more dangerous step closer, his eyes rake across Castiel’s body like he wants to crawl inside and make a home for himself.

“I’m not as much of a douche as I seem, Cas. I see what this war is doing to you. I’ve watched you slowly fall apart over the last year, and I’ve been too cowardly to tell you that I want you back.”

Castiel closes his eyes, and just barely manages to restrain the instinctive draw of his wings, knowing that he cannot leave Dean alone like this, no matter how much these words feel like they’re being rubbed raw against his skin.

“And now? Now I can tell you. Cause I’m not feeling much of anything, and isn’t that a relief.”

Castiel determinedly keeps his eyes closed when he feels a hand cup his jaw, Dean’s warm fingers pressing hard against the sensitive skin, even as another hand curls around Castiel’s elbow in a merciless grip. It would be simple for Castiel to break away, to put an end to this insanity and retreat from the presence of a man who threatens to undo everything Castiel has worked so hard to achieve –

But Dean’s body is almost pressed up against his. And Castiel is so tired of fighting.

“I want you back, Cas. And you want someone who can take control for awhile. Someone who can strip you of your duties, and break you into pieces, so you no longer have to make any decisions of your own.”

Castiel’s chest is hurting, something clenching around the vicinity of his vessel’s heart, and there’s no denying the jolt of pure needs that streaks through him, centering at his groin and streaking up through the rest of his body. He’s horrified to realize that he’s becoming hard in his pants, his body making decisions for him against the will of his mind, and he doesn’t dare open his eyes to take in Dean’s smirking face.

“Dean. Don’t make me do this.”

“Don’t paint me the monster, Cas. I’m not making you do a damn thing. You could knock me out with a single finger.”

Castiel is breathing much too quickly, and he finally forces his eyes open, helpless fury sweeping through him as he just barely manages to refrain from straining towards the body that’s not quite touching his. Dean is studying him like he’s some kind of new creature he’s never been before, like he wants to take Castiel apart and see how he works on the inside, and Castiel’s fingers curl into fists at his side.

“You cannot give your consent for this. You are not yourself.”

Castiel flinches when Dean actually throws back his head and laughs, before the hand on his jaw slides down his neck, long fingers curling around his throat with just the slightest hint of pressure.

“You’re worried about _me?_ God, Castiel – always the martyr. Always thinking about everyone else before himself. Why don’t you let someone else take care of you for a change?”

It’s tempting beyond anything Dean could ever understand, and Castiel squeezes his eyes shut again as Dean slowly leans in to just breathe the same air as Castiel, a hint of teeth sneaking out to scratch over Castiel’s lower lip before Castiel has even realized what’s happening.

“You gonna let me do this? Give you something else to focus on other than your damn war?”

Dean cannot comprehend Castiel’s despair and desperation – cannot even begin to fathom how the fate of billions of souls are burning beneath Castiel’s skin like a nightmare he can never escape – and yet here he is, offering to take it all away for awhile. Offering to provide Castiel an escape from the hell that has become his life.

“Can you make me forget what it feels like to kill my own brothers and sisters?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” and Castiel’s eyes fly open just in time to Dean’s teeth sneak out in a grin that sends a streak of desperate sensation down Castiel’s spine, “I can make you forget whatever you want.”

Castiel slams his eyes shut against the sight, that surge of desperation enough to freeze the air in his lungs – and then he’s shaking his head and curling his hand around Dean’s wrist, holding his fingers still against the skin of Castiel’s neck. He distantly realizes that he’s breathing too hard, that hated sensation of human panic tearing him up from the inside out, and then he’s shaking his head again despite the fact that the refusal is almost physically painful.

“No.”

“No?”

“You would never do this if you had your soul.”

“Maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe I’m grateful for the chance to explore my not-so-hidden inner monster.”

The lack of expression in Dean’s voice is almost as chilling as the utter blankness behind his eyes, but the soft words make Castiel pause, even as he concentrates on moving air through his lungs – and then Dean’s free hand slides up to press against Castiel’s chest, a splash of warmth that Castiel can feel across his entire body.

“Stop thinking so hard, Cas. I’ve wanted to do this for years.” 

Castiel cannot believe this is happening, but when Dean’s fingers around his neck squeeze a little tighter, Castiel’s nodding before he can stop himself; and then something not unlike terror shoots up through his veins as Dean’s smile slides away into a thoughtful look, the human’s head tilting slightly as he studies the press of his own fingers against Castiel’s skin.

“What a good little angel. About time you stopped running yourself ragged.”

Castiel can’t find any words to respond to that, because it’s so similar to what he’s wanted to hear for months – but the words mean nothing now, falling flat between them with the way Dean’s soul has been ripped from his body, and Castiel fights the urge to shift in place, suddenly reminded of just how far from human Dean is right now. 

“Don’t freak out on me now, sweetheart. We haven’t even got to the good stuff yet.”

“Do not call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever I damn well want to.” And before Castiel can even find a respond to that, Dean lets go out of his neck and steps back completely, turning the one inch between them into almost a foot. “Get on the bed. Clothes off, and lie down.”

Castiel’s left reeling from the sudden loss of contact, and he watches as Dean carelessly turns his back and crosses to the other side of the room, inspecting something on Bobby’s desk and acting as though Castiel’s not even there. Trying to breathe over the hum in his ears, Castiel hesitantly brings his fingers to the knot of his tie, fumbling with the material as though he hasn’t done this a hundred times before.

“I’m not gonna have to cut those off you, am I?”

Dean doesn’t even bother to turn around as he speaks, and Castiel takes a deep breath before sliding his tie from around his neck, dropping his coat to the floor and stripping off the rest of his clothing with as much clinical detachment as he can manage. He’s never truly understood the human obsession with the apparent weakness of nudity, but by the time his clothing is lying in a pile on the floor, and he’s climbing onto the bed while Dean never once turns around, he thinks he’s beginning to understand just why humans associate nakedness with vulnerability.

“Dean?”

“Relax, Cas.” There’s a hint of a smile to Dean’s voice. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Castiel tries to breathe over the beating of his own heart, and when Dean finally turns to face him, his eyes sweep the length of Castiel’s naked body as though Castiel’s skin is his own personal unholy playground. Castiel fails to ignore the way his erection stirs at the heated perusal, and from the way Dean is smirking at him, Castiel suspects that Dean is very pleased by the thought of dragging an angel down to a new level of depravity.

“Well, Cas, you’ve always been beautiful, and the last two years haven’t changed that.”

“I am an angel –”

“Believe me, I’m well aware.” Dean slides a step closer, and Castiel is suddenly and painfully aware of his own nakedness, as Dean stares down at him from behind his armour of clothing and callousness. “And as I was going to say, as beautiful as you are now, beautiful things tend to get even more beautiful when they’re broken. Think you can let me do that to you?”

Castiel thinks of the war unfolding above his head, feels a streak of panic shoot through his limbs, and quickly nods his head, needing this distraction with a desperation that frightens him. He closes his eyes again, concentrating on the gentle movement of air from the fan above him, listening to the gentle rasp of the blades cutting through stale air, and his penis hardens further when an unexpected hand comes to rest in the middle of his chest.

“Now, we do have ourselves a little problem, though.”

Castiel forces his eyes back open to see a thoughtful expression on Dean’s face, his heart missing a few crucial beats when he realizes that Dean is studying him like he’s a particular fascinating insect, trapped under glass for the amusement of its keeper. Before he can panic at the thought of any problem interfering with this, the hand on his chest slides to curl around his neck again, and Castiel reminds himself that he technically does not need oxygen to survive.

“Cause the thing is, you’re all juiced up on angel mojo. And while your meatsuit seems capable of feeling good without too much work, I’ve seen you fall from a fourth story window and come back without a scratch – so just how do you propose we tamper down your Grace long enough for me to take you apart the way you want to be?”

Castiel feels his tongue slip out to lick his own dry lips. The only other times they had done this, he had already been falling, slip sliding his way towards humanity, and pain had been an unwelcome friend on that downward journey – but for the last two years, his only experience of true physical pain has been angel-inflicted, and he studies the man in front of him for a long moment. 

“I can… mute my Grace. If I wish to.”

“And why exactly are angels programmed to do that?”

“Some of the humans we have interacted with over the course of history have been particularly susceptible to the force of our Grace. We have, on rare occasions, been forced to dampen our powers to be able to interact with them.” 

“What, you almost burn out Moses’ eyes with the force of your juiced-up human meatsuit?”

The entire conversation is surreal, and Castiel doesn’t bother to dignify that last question with a response, concentrating instead on the physical sensations he can already feel. He is hyperaware of the air moving gently across his skin, of the heat of Dean’s eyes on his own, and he licks his lips again as he waits for Dean’s verdict, unsure of whether he’s meant to proceed without explicit permission.

“You sure you wanna do this, sweetheart?”

Castiel barely stops what he’s sure would be a whine. For Dean to offer, and then to make him ask for it again – it’s enough to make him feel even shakier inside, and Castiel squeezes his eyes shut as he presses a hand against the fingers that are curling against his chest, suddenly desperate for something to take his mind away from the monster he’s turning into.

“Please, Dean. Stop me from thinking.”

There’s a growling noise before his hand is smacked away, and Castiel flinches but keeps his eyes squeezed firmly shut at the sound of clothing coming off, his body aching even more at the dull thud of boots hitting the ground beside the bed. It’s not until two hands curl around each of his wrists that Castiel manages to open his eyes again, to find Dean bent over his body, wearing nothing but his jeans and the brand of Castiel’s own hand.

“You want to stop thinking?”

Castiel’s nod feels frantic even to himself, and he nearly bites down on his own tongue when Dean leans in to breathe the same air as him, their lips just barely brushing as he breathes out the rough words against Castiel’s mouth.

“Then mute your Grace.”

Castiel is scrambling to do so before he can even process the full implication of the words, and his skin begins to tingle as he feels his power recede, slipping away to curl up in some dark corner of his mind. The air suddenly feels cooler, the blanket against his back is rougher, and the feel of Dean’s lips hovering above his own is enough to send shocks of sensation down the entire length of his body.

“Alright there, sweetheart?”

Castiel squeezes his eyes tightly shut, overwhelmed by the feeling of oxygen moving through his lungs, the intoxicating scent of Dean’s body – the feel of Dean’s fingers sliding up his bare arm to press against his chest, the nails pressing down just hard enough to dig crescents into Castiel’s suddenly sensitive skin. His breath leaves him in a hiss at the sharp bite of pain, and his eyes fly open to watch a smirk curl along the edges of Dean’s lips.

“You can feel that?”

Castiel swallows hard and nods, his heart trying to beat out of his chest as Dean’s eyes flash with unrestrained satisfaction.

“Good.”

Castiel distantly thinks that, if he still had faith in his Father’s mercy, then this would be about the moment when he started to pray. Instead, he closes his eyes again and forms his lip around the name that has brought him to the place he is now.

“Dean –”

“Shut up.”

Castiel feels the words like a punch to his ribs. He can’t breathe for a second, and then Dean is dragging his nails along his chest again, dragging them in a pattern that somehow seems familiar.

“Much better. Now, stay still.”

Even the sensation of oxygen moving through his lungs is overwhelming at this point, and Castiel barely allows himself to breathe as Dean methodically goes about restraining Castiel to the bed, fastening his wrists and ankles down against the rough material, not saying a single word as he works. When that silence is suddenly too much, broken only by the sound of metal on metal and the muted swish of the fan above them, Castiel squeezes his eyes shut a little tighter, unable to watch as Dean slowly and silently circles around the bed – and then there’s a hand wrapped around his chin, and Castiel feels his eyes fly open again.

“Keep ’em open, sweetheart.”

And then Dean quirks him a dangerously wolf-like grin, curls his fingers into the sensitive skin of Castiel’s chin, and leans down to brush their lips together.

It’s like being struck by lightning. It’s like a shot of pure angelic Grace being channeled into him. It’s – it’s been two years, two desperately lonely years, and it’s so good that Castiel could almost cry, his entire body suddenly beginning to tremble from top to bottom.

“Stay with me, Cas.” 

The words are murmured against his mouth, a low rumble that would almost sound like Dean’s normal voice, save for the utter lack of emotion in it – and Castiel’s only response is to squeeze his eyes shut against a moan and try to arch up into the contact, his wrists burning when he finds himself unable to follow Dean’s mouth as the human straightens up again.

“You’re really that desperate for this, aren’t you.”

Castiel desperately wants to close his eyes as Dean stares down at him, his head tilted in a way that looks almost puzzled, nothing more than a clinical assessment of the strange creature he’s got strapped down to this ragged old bed, and Castiel is mortified – a human emotion he’s grown to hate – as he feels something start to itch in the back of his throat.

“Please,” he whispers, a broken rasp of a sound, as he somehow forces himself to meet Dean’s eyes, and with a noise that sounds almost animalistic, Dean slides himself onto the bed, wedges his knees in against the sides of Castiel’s torso, and curls forward to slam their lips together so hard Castiel is pretty sure he can already feel bruises forming.

He never wants this moment to end.

Then, sharp teeth sink into his lower lip as something cool slides along the side of his ribcage, and Castiel goes perfectly still against Dean, his heart tripping up another beat when he feels Dean’s lips curl into a smirk against his.

“Ruby’s knife. At least the bitch was useful for something.”

“Dean.”

It’s all Castiel manages to breathe out, his voice stolen by the tightness in his chest. When Dean sits back up and just stares down at him, dragging the tip of knife across his chest with an oddly gentle amount of pressure, Castiel is almost afraid to breathe, for fear of that knife going somewhere it shouldn’t.

“You know, back when I was in Hell, I really enjoyed slicing people apart.”

Castiel somehow manages to keep his eyes on Dean, knowing that closing them will mean visions of how Dean was when Castiel found him, that tortured and blackened creature that still somehow shone brighter than any human soul Castiel had ever encountered before.

“You saw me there. You know what I was.”

“Dean –”

“So why would you let me anywhere near you with this thing?”

Castiel barely keeps himself from twitching away as the tip of the knife drags a thin white line across his skin, a small spike of pain that sends heat traveling across his entire body, and makes it suddenly harder to breathe.

“You know, back in Hell, if someone didn’t answer when I asked them a question, I’d peel off a few layers of their tongue.”

As the words rub raw against Castiel’s ears, and the knife starts to slowly slide up Castiel’s chest, he finally slams his eyes shut – but then, suddenly, in the darkness that his sight has vanished into, all Castiel can see is Hell.

He can see the mangled monster that Dean had been when Castiel found him. He remembers the way Alistair’s scream of rage had echoed across all seven circles, a distant ringing in Castiel’s ears as he and Dean had fled back towards the light. He remembers the demon that Dean had been taking apart, the way it had screamed and screamed and screamed the entire time Castiel had been there, begging and pleading for help, for mercy. He remembers the knives where the creature’ eyes had once been, the way Dean had nailed its wrists and ankles and hips to the rack. 

But mostly, he remembers the way Dean had tried to flee, the way he had fought Castiel every moment of their journey upwards – and then the way Dean had clung to him and sobbed once Castiel had finally got them to the first circle, and had began sewing Dean’s soul back together with tendrils of his own Grace.

And now, after giving everything he’s even been to keep Dean safe, to protect him from the world and from himself – now he’s lying here, offering himself as a helpless victim, and this is the exact opposite of keeping Dean safe.

Castiel forces his eyes open again as he whimpers and twists away from the light bite of pain on his skin, staring up at Dean and finding that he can barely get enough oxygen in the face of Dean’s intensity. There is nothing behind his eyes to suggest that this Dean is the Dean that Castiel has fallen for – in every sense of the word – and it’s as though only in this moment does Castiel truly understand that the essence of what makes Dean – his human soul, that wounded, struggling thing that Castiel had cradled against himself during their ascent out of Hell – is truly gone from the body standing in front of him.

And while Castiel has learned that there are shades of gray to existence – and while Castiel has done things that surely condemn him to the deepest pits of Hell – some things are utterly wrong, and the animal blankness behind Dean’s eyes is one of those things.  
 _  
I would give anything not to have you do this._

“I cannot let you do this to yourself.”

It takes everything he has to get the words out – he doesn’t _want_ to be making decisions, he doesn’t want to be responsible for anything right now, he doesn’t want to _think_ – and Castiel hears himself make a hurt sound as he prepares to gather his Grace around him like a layer of armour, prepares to leave the room and deal with the consequences later – and then a large hand curls against the side of his face, and Castiel finds himself frozen as he stares up into Dean’s utterly emotionless eyes.

“Cas. I _want_ to do this.” 

“You cannot give your consent.” He can hear the almost frantic tone in his voice, and his body thrums with barely contained energy, seconds away from disappearing from the room. “You are not –”

“Do you know how careful I’ve been, every single time I’ve touched you?”

“Dean –” 

“Badass motherfucking angel of the lord, and I’ve been scared of leaving a scratch. Of biting too deep, or holding you hard enough to bruise. Of slipping, just for a moment, and turning back into the monster Alistair carved me too.”

Castiel tries not to hear the words, tries to find the strength he needs to leave, but he can’t seem to move as Dean continues stare down at him, one hand still curled almost casually against the side of his cheek.

“You’re not that monster. Dean, you –”

“Then prove it.”

_“Dean –”_

“Prove to me that you trust me enough to do this to you, without destroying both of us.”

The words cut straight through him with more deadly accuracy than any knife ever could, and Castiel lets out a noise that sounds desperate even to his own ears, squeezing his eyes shut as the world around him becomes a damp blur, his throat tightening up as tender fingers brush a curl of hair off his forehead.

“Come on, Cas. Please. I _need_ to know that I can do this.”

Dean slowly brushes the tip of his finger along the curve of Castiel’s cheekbone, a tender gesture that Castiel can feel straight through to every inch of his body, and with an overwhelming surge of helplessness, a wave of emotion that feels like finally giving in to something much stronger than himself, Castiel finally just stops fighting.

He must make a noise, or nod his head, because he’s suddenly being kissed again, Dean’s lips soft against his as the hunter cradles Castiel’s face in his hands, the knife lying between them on Castiel’s chest, harmlessly resting there as though Dean has forgotten all about it. Castiel can feel the coolness of the metal against his skin, the warmth of Dean’s mouth against his, and he strains against the manacles holding his wrists in place, suddenly hating that he can’t use his hands.

“Easy, sweetheart. We’re just getting started.”

The words are breathed against his lips, and then there’s a shocking blast of coolness against his overheated skin as Dean slides back off Castiel’s body and stands beside the bed, his hand resting almost casually against the bare skin of Castiel’s hipbone. Castiel barely bites down a whimper at the loss of contact, at suddenly being so completely exposed to Dean’s gaze again, and he hitches in a breath as Dean slowly slides a hand up along his chest, brushing it across his nipples as they tighten in the cool air.

“You may have noticed, Cas, that Bobby installed some extra restraints in here. Guess he wanted to make sure we could hold more than one person at a time, if we ever needed to.”

It takes Castiel a second to process what Dean is saying, and then he glances over to the iron manacles stuck into the wall, an addition that had seemed utterly unimportant up to this point. When Dean quirks out a smirk at him and begins to unclasp him from the bed, freeing the pressure around his wrists and ankles, Castiel wonders if his legs are even going to be able to work.

“Up. Get up. I’ve changed my mind. I want you standing.”

Dean picks the knife off Castiel’s chest and sets it on the bed as Castiel begins to slide his legs over the side, getting about halfway off before Dean is yanking him to his feet and shoving him across the room, manhandling Castiel as easily as if he were a ragdoll. Castiel feels himself flush straight down to his chest as he’s pushed across the room, cool air dancing across the entire length of his naked body, and Dean’s fingers digging grooves into hips.

“Against the wall.”

Castiel can barely breathe over how hard is heart is hammering as Dean spins him around, slams his back against the cold metal of the panic room wall, and pulls his hands high above his head. It’s only when the manacles click into place that the full extent of his position hits Castiel, and he fights the desperate need to shy away as Dean curls out a smirk and steps back to stare at him, crossing his arms across his bare chest as he runs his eyes along the length of Castiel’s body.

“Looks like some parts of you are still happy to see me.”

Castiel closes his eyes against a rush of all too human mortification, especially as he feels himself harden further with the way he knows Dean is still staring at him, the way Dean has pressed two fingers into the center of his chest.

“You ready to get things started?”

Castiel doesn’t have a chance to respond before Dean slaps him. Not hard, but enough for the burn to spread all the way across his cheek, heat sneaking down his neck. He tastes blood as he reels sideways from the blow, and then Dean’s fingers are soft against his mouth, almost tenderly freeing his bitten lip from his own teeth.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Cas. That’s my job, not yours.”

Castiel has never felt so vulnerable in his entire life. His breathing starts to come in unsteady bursts as Dean’s fingers slide down from his lips to curl around his neck.

“Dean –”

“That was for the time you beat the shit out of me. I probably won’t do it again. Blunt violence is a much too imprecise way of causing pain.”

Castiel licks away a lingering trail of blood as Dean turns to the bed, picking up the knife and dragging the tip of it along his own finger, pressing barely hard enough to leave a mark. Then, with a curled smirk, he turns back to Castiel’s body and presses the blunt side of knife across his collarbone, his eyes flashing down the length of Castiel’s chest.

“Remember the last time we were in this position?”

Castiel can still feel the way Dean’s body had crumpled beneath the weight of his fists, can still remember the sound of Dean’s back hitting the brick wall in that alley. He remembers, a day later, lying in the dirt outside a dilapidated warehouse, with Dean’s lips firmly pressed together as he had methodically carved a series of sigils into Castiel’s chest.

“I remember that your hands never even shook.”

“Had to get the design right, didn’t I?”

The knife slowly trails down from his collarbone to the center of his chest, and Castiel can feel his body instinctively twisting away from the touch. When Dean stills and presses the tip of the knife into his skin, not hard enough to break it but hard enough to send a wash of heat across his chest, Castiel makes himself hold still, reminding himself that he had agreed to this, that he had wanted to forget everything, that he had wanted someone to make the decisions for him, just this one time –

“Last time I did this, I didn’t enjoy it.” Dean presses the tip of the knife a little deeper, the skin denting in under the pressure, and Castiel dimly realizes that he’s barely breathing anymore. “This time, I will.”

“Dean –”

“You may not have been completely juiced up on angel mojo, last time, but you were still angel enough to more or less hold still while I carved you up. This time, though – this time you’ll feel everything. As though you’re one of those hairless apes your buddies seem so fond of calling us.”

The words bring back everything – his brothers and sisters, dead at his hand; the war going on above him; the unforgivable things he’s done to keep the world safe – and Castiel closes his eyes and waits for the agony of a blade carving into his flesh, something inside him hurting anew with the knowledge that he deserves whatever pain Dean inflicts on him.

“Thanks for letting me do this to you, Cas.”

Castiel hears himself make some kind of helpless noise, his body straining away from the knife as the reality of the situation suddenly starts to sink in, and then Dean’s lips press down hard against his as a spike of pain shoots across his chest, and the knife begins to move across his skin.

“Remember to breathe.”

Castiel pulls himself rigid, fingers digging into the manacles above his hands, flinching against the expected bite of pain – but the blade never fully sinks into his flesh, never actually cuts into his body, instead sliding across his skin with a level of care that hurts almost as much as being carved open would have.

“Told you I’d take care of you, right?”

“Dean –”

Castiel is horrified to realize that his vision is growing damp, his entire body wracked with a wave of overwhelming gratitude, and all he can do is stare helplessly at Dean, the lines of his body damp around the edges, as Dean’s lips curl into a dangerous smirk that makes Castiel shake from the inside out.

“But I bet you’d have let me do anything to you. Would let me carve ya right up, wouldn’t ya?”

Dean’s eyes slide down to his chest as the knife continues to slide across Castiel’s skin, the tip pressing hard enough to leave white lines, but not hard enough to do more than trace an outline of the same sigils Dean had once carved into his flesh. Castiel dimly realizes that he’s dropped his own eyes to stare down at the way the knife is slowly moving across his skin, watching the sigils reappear on his chest, the thin lines etched into the flesh that had first been scarred by Dean’s knife, and then made whole again when Castiel had been brought back from oblivion.

“Stop thinking.”

“How did you –”

The knife digs in hard enough for a tiny spot of red to appear, the skin breaking under Dean’s touch for the first time, and Castiel hisses as he jerks away from the bloom of pain, his back rubbing raw against the solid wall behind him as he struggles to move backwards.

“You don’t get to ask the questions here, Cas. Just do as I say.”

Castiel slams his eyes shut as his vision goes damp again, suddenly aware that one wrong word could turn this entire situation into the nightmare he had originally thought he was going to live. Dean’s touch has become deceptively light again, the tip of the knife pressing only hard enough to leave thin lines of sensation, and Castiel makes himself hold still as Dean leans in to breathe a smirking kiss against the arch of Castiel’s collarbone, even as the knife slides down to curl across the sensitive skin at the side of Castiel’s stomach.

“I suppose you’d say we’re all God’s perfect little creations, wouldn’t you.” 

The words are somewhat nonsensical, unexpected as they are, and almost impossible to understand for a moment, and Castiel opens his eyes to find Dean staring down at his chest, nothing but animal blankness in his expression as the knife traces a line across Castiel’s chest.

“That your higher power sat up there and made us these nice little bodies for our souls to live in.”

The knife slides back down to the vulnerable skin of Castiel’s stomach, never deviating from the design Dean had once carved into his body, and Castiel can only hold his breath and watch as a shadow of those same sigils begins to reappear, thin white lines of pain that radiate out across his entire chest.

“So tell me, Cas. If your God is so smart, then tell me why we’re built this way. Tell me why human bodies have to _hurt_ the way they do.”

Castiel barely has time to register the dangerous rasp to Dean’s voice before the knife presses deeper, the sensitive skin of his stomach finally breaking under its sharp point, and then he’s letting out a yell and bucking away, twisting desperately when he realizes there’s nowhere for him to go.

“Forty goddamn years of this. Forty years before your God saw fit to rescue me.”

The words – the memories of the twisted creature Dean had been when Castiel had finally found him – hurt almost as much as the blade, and Castiel can feel his vision growing damp again as he presses himself back against the wall, another yell tearing out of his throat when Dean simply follows and crowds in closer, the knife dragging a new streak of pain across Castiel’s stomach.

“Your dick angel buddies left me there to rot. Left me to bleed my way into breaking the first seal.”

Castiel can hear himself saying Dean’s name, can hear the panic in his own voice as he tries to pull away – doesn’t want to pull away, wants to give Dean this, but he can’t seem to stop the instinctive twist of his body – and then Dean leans in to dig his teeth into the skin of Castiel’s collarbone, and Castiel twists into the contact even as the rest of his body shies away from the knife, which has come to rest harmlessly against his stomach as Dean begins to suck a bruise into Castiel’s skin.

“Dean,” he manages to rasp out, but then Dean steps backward, leaving Castiel to hang limp against the cold wall, and Castiel closes his eyes as he tries to get air into his lungs, tries to breathe around the agonized heat shooting up from his stomach. He knows that this is something that humans do, pushing their physical and mental limits and straddling the line between pain and pleasure, but he’s suddenly not sure if there’s even anything sexual about this. This seems to have somehow become Dean taking out his history on Castiel’s body, and whatever pity he had shown earlier seems to have vanished.

“Ready for some more?”

 _No,_ Castiel thinks to himself, but panic makes it impossible to speak, his body thrumming as Dean backs him into the wall again, even as some tiny voice in the back of his brain reminds him that he could end this with a single thought –

Then the knife nicks a red line across his hipbone, and Castiel twists away with a groan, his vision blurring around the edges with the wave of pain the follows, the splash of heat that sears across his skin. He doesn’t even have time to breathe through it before Dean is carving a thin red line down the side of his leg, and Castiel hears himself shouting out something incoherent as he curls his fingers into the manacles above him, needing something to hold on to as he struggles to keep himself as still as possible, terrified of that knife digging any deeper than Dean wants it to.

“Still not strapping on your wings and leaving me?”

Castiel distantly hears the words, knows that they mean something important, but when the tip of Dean’s knife slides gently from his leg back to his stomach, no longer pressing hard enough to break the skin, Castiel finds himself unable to concentrate on anything more than just getting his breath back –

And then Dean slaps him again, harder than he had the first time, belying his earlier promise to not do it again. The force of the blow sends Castiel reeling sideways as far as his body can go, and he only realizes he’s spitting out blood when Dean slides two long fingers into his mouth, the tips pressing down hard against the back of his tongue.

“What the fuck, Cas. Why are you still here?”

Castiel hears the words even as he struggles to breathe around the fingers on his tongue, and then suddenly the fingers are yanked from his mouth, and there are hands pressed into his hipbones, keeping his body still as Dean just stares at him, something hard etched into the dangerous lines of his face. His mind still spinning from the force of Dean’s palm against his cheek, his body an aching mess of bloody skin, Castiel finds himself struggling to get his thoughts together, and the first thing that sweeps through him is an overwhelming wave of betrayal, because Dean had _promised_ him that he wouldn’t have to think about anything.

“You said you could make me forget.”

He hates how weak his own voice sounds, and Dean’s response is to slide a hand down the side of his thigh, casually resting his fingers above the bloody mess on Castiel’s leg. Castiel feels his entire body twitch away from the contact, knowing how painful it’s going to be if Dean decides to dig his fingers into that wound, but then there’s a dangerous smirk curling around the edges of Dean’s lips.

“Not good enough, Cas. I just cut you up, did my best to drive you away, and yet, you’re still here. Why?”

Castiel spits out a new mess of blood and closes his eyes, a wave of panic sweeping over him as he tries to find some answer that will satisfy Dean, something that will get Dean away from this line of thought. He doesn’t want to _think,_ and here Dean is, hurting him and then taking that away, making him think again, and Castiel almost believes that having that knife back on his skin would be preferable to Dean tearing apart his reasons for subjecting himself to this.

“Is it me? Are you just doing this for me?”

Dean has cupped a hand around his jaw again, bloodstained fingers pressing hard into the bruise that Castiel can already feel forming on his face, and Castiel desperately wishes for Dean’s lips on his own. He pushes his face into the contact, feels a bolt of lust shoot through him as he darts out a tongue to lick the blood from Dean’s fingers, and even over the pain clouding his mind he still hears the hitch of breath as his tongue slides across Dean’s palm. 

Then, Dean steps back with a dangerous sound and spins Castiel around, crossing his arms painfully above his head and shoving him into the wall, pressing his body up against Castiel’s back. The sudden movement sends a wave of adrenaline that blanks Castiel’s mind for a second, and then his entire body jolts as a single finger slides across the entrance to his body.

“Talk to me, Cas.”

Dean’s voice is low against his hear, and Castiel can’t stop the whimper that falls from his lips as he struggles in his chains, unsure of whether he wants to twist into or away from that finger. The decision is taken from him when a hand slaps down hard against his ass, sending a wash of pain across his entire lower body, and he finds himself instinctively arching into the painful contact.

“Well, look at that. Kinky little angel.”

The hand comes down again, and again, until Castiel is twisting so hard he thinks he’s going to snap his wrists above him, and his mouth is making pained noises without his consent. It hurts, but Castiel can’t seem to stop craving exactly what Dean is doing now, his awareness narrowing down to nothing except the sensations screaming across his body, and no matter how much this hurts, he never wants it to end.

When it does stop, finally, Castiel finds himself panting for breath, damp streaks down his face, and then Dean presses himself full length against his body again, a hand snaking around his body to wrap around his hardening penis, making him jolt forward into the contact, a sudden wave of need spiking across his entire body.

“Looks like someone’s got a little spanking kink.”

Castiel has a brief, almost hysterical moment of wondering how he ever get himself into this position, and then his mind wipes clean as Dean’s fingers stroke down the length of his penis, pressing with just the right amount of pressure, as though Dean hasn’t forgotten a single thing about Castiel’s body, despite the years they’ve been apart.

“Come on, Cas. You put up with more shit from me than any sane person would. Why are you still here?”

Castiel doesn’t even have time to figure out a way to evade the question before Dean is uncurling his fingers and spinning him around again, untwisting his arms above him so quickly the returning blood flow is painful, and then there’s the sharp edge of a knife pressed against his chest again. Castiel feels his throat move as he chokes down a new wave of fear, but when fingers curl around his penis again, Castiel can’t help but arch into the unexpected touch, and then he hisses and jerks back again as the tip of the knife catches sharp against his skin, the sweeping wave of pain enough to make his stomach turn over.

“Shit, sweetheart – what did I tell you about hurting yourself?”

And then Dean makes a noise that sounds almost disapproving as he drops the knife and slides to his knees on the dirty floor, leaving Castiel whimpering – and hating himself for it – as strong hands press his legs apart until it hurts, the sudden burn on his ass and his leg enough to stop the oxygen in his lungs, as his cock hovers in front of Dean’s face, a thin trail of warm blood seeping down Castiel’s stomach.

Then, Dean is leaning in to nuzzle his face against an unbroken patch of skin on Castiel’s stomach, kneeling on the floor with his fingers still curled into the skin of Castiel’s legs, and Castiel is pretty sure that the only thing that keeps him upright are the chains wrapped around his wrist. He bucks forward when Dean presses a kiss to the sensitive skin of his cock, one hand sliding across the front of his body to curl around the base.

“And I told you I could do this without destroying us. You trust me, don’t ya?”

Castiel is afraid to even try to answer, overwhelmed by the image of Dean shirtless and on his knees, something that Castiel hasn’t seen for two long years – and then Dean’s lips are sucking gently on the blood that has smeared across Castiel’s stomach, the red liquid smearing across the front of Dean’s mouth, and Castiel’s entire mind seems to wash white with the sensation, the splash of pain tearing a yelp from somewhere deep inside him. As he just begins to come back down, it’s to the unexpected warmth of Dean’s mouth suddenly stretched around his cock, and the shock of sensation is more than enough to draw another cry from his throat.

“Dean –”

“Shut up.”

Castiel manages to bite off his words as he squeezes his eyes shut and bucks forward into the hands holding his hips back against the wall, his breathing already coming ragged as his body jolts from pure pain to pure pleasure, the switch happening so abruptly it barely falls on the good side of too much. Castiel can feel the way his legs are trembling as Dean’s tongue flicks across his sensitive skin, the way his penis is swelling back to hardness at the wetness of Dean’s mouth around him, the way his fingers are digging into the manacles above him as Castiel’s body starts to shake apart with almost disconcerting speed – and then Dean is pulling away to leave Castiel’s cock standing drenched and upright in the cool air of the panic room, his gaze flicking up along Castiel’s body to lock onto his eyes.

“That’s more like it.” Dean grins up at him, nothing at all human in the almost feral curl of his lips, but Castiel still feels a shock of pure lust lance through him at the sight. “Can’t be just me having all the fun, can it?”

Castiel swallows around the gratitude in his throat, and then Dean picks up the knife from the ground and slides back to his feet, running his gaze along the length of Castiel’s body, any hint of pleased fondness slipping from his face as his eyes flicker from the bloody mess he’s made of Castiel’s leg, to the smears of red across his stomach, to the white lines etched out across his chest.

“Well, don’t you make a pretty picture. Ready to go again?”

As the sharpness of the blade presses down against his collarbone, and Dean’s eyes rake along his skin as though he wants to carve a place for himself inside, Castiel simply closes his eyes and does his best to steady himself for the next shock of pain – and then there are gentle lips pressed against his own, and Dean is kissing him so gently it’s almost enough to bring tears to Castiel’s eyes.

“Relax, sweetheart. If I want to prove I’m not just the monster Alistair carved me into, I’d best find something else to do with you.”

The words might be meant as reassurance, but as Deans steps back and leaves Castiel to hang naked against the cold wall, Castiel can’t help but hear only a veiled threat – the fact that, if he didn’t have something to prove to himself, then there would be very little keeping Dean from slipping back into that love he had for slicing people up.

Then, he gets distracted – his stupid, frail, lustful human vessel – as Dean throws the knife to the side and slides his jeans and underwear to the floor, kicking them to the side and standing naked in the middle of the room. Castiel isn’t surprised to find that Dean’s cock is hard, pressed up against his stomach, and he feels his entire body lurch with sudden need as Dean crosses back to him, his body moving with a careless abandon that Castiel knows he would never been able to match.

“Dean,” he manages, his mouth actually watering as he flicks his eyes up and down Dean’s body, the pain in his leg momentarily dulling as his body begins to ache from the inside out with the need to touch, “Dean, you –”

“Two goddamn years, Cas, and you never once came to me. You left me to die slowly, day by day, as though we had never meant anything to each other –”

“It was what you wanted,” Castiel manages to choke out, guilt making the sentence stick in his throat, Dean’s words slicing through him as surely as his knife had done. “You wanted a life. Sam wanted you to have a life. There was no place for me –”

“You really thought I wanted fucking white picket fences when I could have had this?”

Dean slaps him, harder than he had the first two times, and Castiel has barely finished swaying from side to side before Dean is pressed full-length up against him, Castiel’s penis sliding damp against the muscle of Dean’s leg, and Castiel could almost cry from how could it feels to finally have Dean’s body back against his – but then he looks into Dean’s eyes, and he can almost feel the blood run icy in his vessel’s veins.

“You really thought, for a moment, that me playing house was going to fix all the shit that’s happened to me?”

Castiel is torn between pushing himself back against the cold wall and pushing himself closer to Dean’s warm body, but either way, he wants somewhere to look at that isn’t Dean, because he can’t remember the last time he saw this particular kind of emotionless cruelty spread across Dean’s face.

“You left me when I needed you most. And now you’re going to pay for that.”

Castiel sucks in a sharp breath as his body is spun around again, arms once again crossed over his head, and he arches his backside out enough to keep his penis from rubbing against the cold wall. The position sends a flush of heat across his face, despite everything that’s already happened tonight, and as Dean crosses the room to Bobby’s desk again, Castiel presses his forehead against the wall and tries to breathe through the guilt that’s making his stomach turn over.

Because Dean is right. Because standing invisible inside Lisa’s house and watching Dean, keeping an eye on him, making sure he was as alright as he could be, given the circumstances – none of that was even close to what Dean had needed. And, maybe, if Castiel had returned to Dean after raising Sam out of Hell, and had actually told him that his brother was free – then, maybe, none of this would be happening.

“Guess you’re out of luck, sweetheart. I can’t find anything down here that could pass for lube.”

As the words slip through the haze of pain that’s still making it difficult to think clearly, Castiel can only close his eyes helplessly, suddenly and acutely aware of the cool air of the panic room, of the way he’s got his back arched out in a manner that makes his body all too available to the man who’s come to stand behind him again.

“And look at you, ass all stuck out like that. Gagging for it anyway, even though you know it’ll hurt.”

Castiel still doesn’t move from his position against the wall, his forehead still pressed against the cool iron, and his arms aching from being stretched above his head for so long. When warm fingers slide down to cup his ass, already digging in with enough pressure to bruise, he simply swallows hard and bucks back into the touch.

“Do whatever you want to me, Dean. If this will help you, then do it.”

There’s a disconcerting silence for a moment, and then Dean’s lips are pressed against his neck, right underneath his ear, breath moving softly across the sensitive skin. Castiel shudders and leans into the touch, only to twist uneasily in his chains as one of Dean’s fingers slides to press against the entrance to his body.

“You can still leave, you know. The only thing keeping you here is you.”

 _And you,_ Castiel wants to say, wants to give voice to the fact that he would do _anything_ for Dean, but Dean seems to know that already, and all Castiel does is bow is head and bite down on his lip as the tip of one spit-slick finger slides into his body.

“This will hurt.”

Castiel barely has time to breathe before that finger slides all the way inside him, his muscles protesting the intrusion as they try to force Dean out, and Castiel is dimly aware that he’s making some kind of pained noise, twisting away from the touch and breathing harshly when he remembers that there’s nowhere to go. It’s not nearly enough time before a second finger traces along the rim of his anus, a silent threat that has Castiel biting down a whimper and fighting harder against his chains.

“Said I’d take care of you, Cas.” The words are panted against his ear, and he can feel the hardness of Dean’s penis rubbing its slickness against his leg. “Said I could do this without destroying us. Still trust me enough to do that?”

Castiel barely processes the question before there’s a second finger inside him, not nearly enough spit to ease the way, and Castiel fights with every bit of his power to not reach for his Grace, fighting down the urge to unfurl his wings and escape from this room, from the pain that’s being done to him.

Then, Dean starts to suck kisses along the wings of his shoulders, his fingers stilling inside Castiel as his lips start to explore whatever skin they can reach, and Castiel can’t help but arch into the press of Dean’s mouth, needing the splash of pleasure to keep him protected from the dull ache that’s spreading out from where Dean’s fingers are inside him. It’s only when a hand slides around his body to wrap around his penis that Castiel thinks he might be able to get through this, the sudden rush of pleasure somehow making the pressure inside him into less pain, sending a wave of heat rushing through him, and making him want to be filled up in ways he hasn’t been in years.

“Jesus, I don’t even need a binding spell, do I? You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

Dean spreads his fingers a little wider inside him, his teeth dragging a thin line down Castiel’s back, and Castiel realizes that he’s suddenly almost sobbing for breath, twisting both into and away from the touch, pain streaking through him even as Dean’s fingers curl upwards inside him and leave Castiel shouting for air.

“You look good like this, Cas.”

Castiel has just begun to get some air back when Dean forces another finger inside his body, too much, way too much all at once, and all pleasure flees Castiel’s body at being stretched too far without being properly prepared for it. He bites down hard against a yell as he arches forward into the wall, but Dean just follows him and pushes in harder, his teeth sinking into Castiel’s neck until Castiel can feel blood begin to trickle across his skin.

Then, the hand around his penis begins to stroke again, but it’s not enough of a distraction from the pain spreading across his insides, and Dean makes an almost annoyed sound when it becomes obvious that Castiel’s penis isn’t going to get any harder in his hand. When he pulls his hand free, it’s to clamp down hard against Castiel’s thigh, as he pulls his fingers free with such suddenness it drags another groan from Castiel’s throat.

“Whatever. I tried.”

He can hear Dean’s hand slide down the length of his own cock, presumes that Dean is slicking himself up with saliva, and then Dean’s there, blunt pressure against the entrance to his already aching body, and Castiel has a fleeting moment of wondering whether this will really help Dean, or whether he will simply hate himself more later – because he had promised to do this without destroying them, without breaking Castiel into something that can’t be put back together again, and what he’s doing, right now, seems the very opposite of that.

It comes to Castiel fleetingly, maddeningly, that for all he knows Dean Winchester, knows him inside and out, knows the numerous and destructive ways in which he does his best to cling to his humanity, he still does not know how humans are _meant_ to deal with trauma, and Castiel suddenly and fiercely hates the limitations that are preventing him from assessing just how much damage Dean is about to do to both of them.

“Dean – Dean, wait, you shouldn’t –”

“Having second thoughts, sweetheart?”

A second hand clamps down against his other hipbone, his body held firmly in place and his arms still strung above his head, and Castiel frantically tries to breathe over all the sensations, the pain that’s been done to so much of his body – tries to find some way to ask if this is actually what Dean wants, or whether this is just going to destroy them.

“You – you said this would be helpful for you – you wanted to see if you were more than that monster –”

“Then leave, Cas.” Fingernails dig hard into his hip, a new splash of pain among all the other injuries. “This _will_ help me – let me get some closure for Hell – but if you need to wimp out, think you don’t _deserve_ this kind of pain for all the angels you’ve slaughtered –”

The wave of shame is overwhelming to the point of being painful, and Castiel cuts off the rough words by twisting his head to awkwardly press his lips against Dean’s, the first thing he’s done all night that wasn’t dictated by someone else, his whole body jerking when Dean’s teeth sink down hard into his lip.

“That a yes, sweetheart?”

Fighting the blinding urge to unfurl his wings and escape, Castiel closes his eyes and manages a curt nod, tasting blood from where Dean had bit him, and then drops his head back to the front as he curls his fingers into the manacles above him, bracing himself for the push of Dean inside him.

“Whatever you need, Dean. If this will help you – then, yes.”

He can hear the resignation in his own voice, the sound of finally giving up on fighting for once, and he sucks in his breath as Dean shifts behind him, digging his fingers in a little tighter as he moves just a little bit closer, and Castiel barely holds back a whimper, his entire body tensing –

A few seconds drag by, and then a few others. Castiel barely dares to breathe, his mind still blanking out as he waits for a new surge of pain – so when Dean finally steps back without a sound, leaving Castiel’s back once again vulnerable to the cool air of the room, Castiel doesn’t quite manage to muffle a rasp of confusion, expecting some new kind of torment before Dean finally makes use of his body.

“Dean?”

His voice wavers dangerously in the otherwise silent room, and he doesn’t dare to move, doesn’t dare to even look back at Dean, the silence just as unnerving as anything else had been.

“Jesus, Cas. There is something seriously wrong with you.”

Unsure of where this is going, and trying to breathe through the sharp ache left behind by Dean’s fingers inside him, Castiel keeps his head bowed as he hears the soft sound of Dean’s bare feet padding across the room. He realizes his entire vessel is shaking – adrenaline, he thinks distantly – and then Dean is back again, his fingers curling hard into the skin of Castiel’s thigh, leaving Castiel trying to figure out whether he wants to press into or away from the touch –

And then the realization hits him like a physical blow. Dean’s fingers are slippery, as though he does indeed have something that could make this about more than just pain for Castiel, and the relieved realization all but steals the air from his lungs.

“You –” Castiel seems to be having issues with finding his voice, and he licks across his bloody lips as his vocal chords try to make sound work. “But I thought –”

“I said I could do this without destroying us. You said that I could have anything I wanted from you. Pretty sure we both just proved our points.”

The words seem to burn him up from the inside out, and Castiel closes his eyes helplessly as Dean’s damp mouth begins to slide down the length of his back, his hands dragging sticky lines down Castiel’s legs as he goes, and his teeth leaving a line of bright pain down Castiel’s spine. 

“I may not be feeling much of anything right now, but I know I want you in my life when tonight is over. Lucky for you, that knowledge seems to win out over the fact that I’d still like to fuck my cock into you until you scream at me to stop.”

Castiel can’t stop the full body shudder that runs through his body at the casual emotionless of Dean’s voice, and then there are teeth biting into his skin even as fingers dig into the mess on his thigh, and Castiel can’t help but shout and try to twist away from the sudden flare of pain. He doesn’t get far, though, because Dean simply tightens his grip on Castiel’s leg, and Castiel bites out a whimper as he makes himself hold still, his entire body trembling against the urge to pull away.

“Much better. Now don’t move.”

Castiel tenses as Dean’s fingers flex ever so slightly against the cut on his thigh, but instead of a new wave of blinding pain, he gets a scratch of teeth down the skin of his ass, followed by a tongue sliding across the opening to his body. The flash of heat that burns across his entire vessel leaves him gasping, and when Dean’s tongue begins to slide in damp circles against the sensitive skin, Castiel distantly hears himself let out something that sounds dangerously close to a whine.

“Mmm. Much better.”

There’s a moment of intense pressure against the injury on his thigh, stealing whatever had been left of Castiel’s breath, and then Castiel nearly sobs in relief when Dean’s fingers slide away from his legs to spread him open instead, leaving him exposed and squirming and clinging to the manacles above him to keep him upright. For all that pain is still radiating out across his skin, the slide of Dean’s tongue across the most intimate part of his human body seems to overpower most of the discomfort from all the damage that’s been done to him, and when Dean’s tongue slides fully inside him, slipping against skin that’s already been worked raw by Dean’s fingers, it takes Castiel a long moment to realize that the keening noise in the room is coming from him.

Time seems to slide away after that. Castiel knows that he’s making noises that sound desperate, can distantly feel the Dean’s low laugh rumble against his skin, but all he’s aware of is the heat and wetness inside him, that incendiary touch sending sensation screaming across every nerve of his body, and when three fingers are forced inside his body alongside Dean’s tongue, Castiel can’t help but twist into the touch, even as the sharp ache from the new stretch inside him leaves him squirming helplessly against the chains that hold him tight.

“Dean – Dean, Dean, Dean –”

He can hear himself pleading, can hear Dean laughing, but he can’t think past all the white noise in his head – and then Dean’s tongue and fingers are pulling free abruptly, and Castiel feels himself arching backwards in an attempt to keep the touch, the sudden sensation of emptiness enough to draw a new cry from his throat.

“No –”

“S’okay, sweetheart. I’m not done with you yet.”

Three fingers are shoved back inside him, slick with something more than just spit this time, and Castiel is twisting into the touch before he even realizes it, gratitude burning him up as surely as the feeling of Dean’s fingers inside his body – and then he cries out sharply when Dean’s fingers curl roughly upwards, spreading him open while sending a new wave of need across his body.

“Dean –”

“Yeah, alright. I’m sick of waiting.”

Castiel’s world seems to tilt a little as the fingers leave him, and then Dean is sliding up the length of his back, digging his fingers into the curve of Castiel’s hipbones, and pressing his penis into the slippery mess at the entrance to his body, even as teeth dig into the side of Castiel’s neck – and Castiel barely has time to open his mouth at the bite of pain before Dean slowly begins to push inside him, and then Castiel’s mind wipes out from the sudden pressure and stretch against his oversensitive skin.

“Breathe.”

The word is low against his ear, and with a sharp buck of his hips Dean is inside him, past the original resistance and pushing in hard, and Castiel can hear himself gasping as he twists away from the sudden burn, his fingers scrabbling uselessly for purchase against the cold manacles around his wrists – until a hand comes down to curl around his penis, a long and solid stroke of Dean’s slippery fingers that sends a wave of heat across his entire body, and Castiel can hear himself making a noise that sounds the very opposite of pain, even as he feels Dean continue his relentless slide into Castiel’s body.

“Dean –”

His voice sounds absolutely wrecked to his own ears, a hoarse disaster of the already low voice that normally comes through his throat, and when Dean chooses that moment to scrape his teeth along the sensitive curve of Castiel’s neck, whatever Castiel was going to say is lost under the low groan that slides free. Distantly, even through the sharp ache inside him and the sparks of pleasure spiking out from where Dean’s hand is wrapped around him, he can feel the pleased smirk against his neck as Dean slides even further inside him, and then Castiel is left panting for air as he feels Dean seat himself deep inside him, his hand around Castiel’s penis still stroking softly.

“And you were gonna let me fuck you dry. Masochistic little angel.”

Castiel gets a small amount of gratification from the tightness in Dean’s voice – from the way Dean is finally sounding anything but perfectly composed for the first time since this entire thing started – but that satisfaction is short-lived, because Dean is already beginning to rock against him, gentle movements that nevertheless give Castiel little time to adjust, and Castiel squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to relax his muscles and convince his body to open up around Dean. 

“Best keep your ass stuck out like that, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want to rub your dick raw against the wall.” 

Dean is already shifting behind him as he speaks, and Castiel bites down against a wave of panic as he struggles to brace himself, his arms twisting uselessly above him as he arches his body and tries to find purchase on the cold floor beneath his bare feet. There’s a slow burn as Dean pulls almost completely out of him, and then the hand around his penis is gone, and Dean is gripping tight to both sides of his body, fingers curled in hard against the arches of his hipbones. Castiel barely has time to realize that Dean is bracing him before there’s a sharp thrust inside him, and when the only thing that stops Castiel from slamming into the wall is the tight grip that Dean has on his hips, the pained gasp that rips from his lips is matched by a noise of annoyance from behind him.

“Fuck this.”

There’s a new shock of pain as Dean pulls his penis out of Castiel’s tired body, leaving him empty and aching and hanging limply against the wall, and then Castiel hears a muttered curse and the sounds of Dean fumbling with something – and then Dean is back again, hard and hot against Castiel’s back, reaching above him to where his wrists are chained to the wall –

A sharp clicking noise fills the room, and Castiel’s world washes white as his arms come sliding down, the sudden rush of blood like a dose of fire through his veins. The only thing that keeps him upright is Dean’s arms around him, catching him as he pitches forward and starts to slide down the wall, and then Castiel is being pushed to his hands and knees on the cold iron floor, his trembling limbs barely holding him upright as Dean curls up around him from behind.

“There. Now I can fuck you properly.”

Dean is pushing back inside his body before Castiel even has a chance to brace himself, and then Castiel’s left scrambling to find purchase on the cold floor as Dean starts to move immediately, pull back roughly and shoving in hard again, his teeth never straying far from where they’ve latched back on to the curve of Castiel’s neck. Castiel can hear himself making helpless noises, the sharp movements forcing his body open whether it wants it or not, and then he’s arching desperately when a hand curls around his penis, stroking him rough and fast and leaving him shuddering for more. 

“Dean –”

“You always were a good fuck, Cas.”

The words make him ache more than anything else does, twisting inside him and drawing a hurt sound from his throat, but his vision is starting to blur around the edges as Dean keeps up the movement of his hand, his fingers and palm taking Castiel apart in ways that show he hasn’t forgotten anything over the last two years, and Castiel distantly realizes that he might be able to get through this without breaking apart completely. 

Then, a sweat-stained palm comes to rest over his aching stomach, curling over the mess Dean had made when he cut him open earlier, and Castiel doesn’t realize he’s trying to pull away until Dean goes still behind him, his breath coming hot and fast against Castiel’s ear.

“You said you’d give me anything, sweetheart.”

The fingers on his stomach press down slightly, a sudden shock of sensation, and it takes everything Castiel has to remain where he is, his lips pressed tightly together and his skin almost vibrating with the effort of holding still. 

“Dean –”

His voice is a barely there thing, trailing off completely as Dean begins to draw bloody circles against the untouched skin of his stomach, and then Dean grins against his neck, a flash of lips and teeth that Castiel can feel across his entire body.

“You really are a sucker for me, aren’t you.”

And then Dean is moving again, thrusting hard against him and jerking his hand around Castiel’s penis, and Castiel closes his eyes as he spreads his palm out on the cold floor and tries to brace himself, doing his best to ignore the pain coming from the fingers trailing across his stomach. He focuses instead on the pain of Dean stretching him apart, the discomfort of the floor beneath his knees and palms, the sound of his own shattered voice over the noises of their ragged breathing – because this, here, even with all the pain, is still better than the nothing he’s had for years, and he’s going to cling to every second of Dean’s body pressed up against his.

Then, a change in angle has him shouting, and Dean is laughing against his ear, driving hard into him and scraping across the spot that sends waves of heat across his skin, leaving him torn between pushing back against Dean and pulling away from the hand on his stomach, his body ricocheting back and forth between too many sensations. Somewhere along the way, somewhere in between the combination of pain and pleasure, Castiel’s mind starts to fog over, his body finally reaching the point of too much, and the release that slams through him steals away what was left of his voice, colouring his vision and sucking all the air out of the room as he slumps forward, his elbows hitting the floor hard and his eyes blurring from the force of his orgasm. 

He’s distantly aware of Dean muttering something against his neck, the sharp movements of his penis inside Castiel never stopping as Castiel shakes through his orgasm, Dean pushing his body past the point of oversensitivity as Castiel squirms desperately against the cold floor – but when Dean finally breaks apart behind him, thrusting in hard and holding Castiel tight against his body, groaning low against his neck and releasing deep inside him, Castiel still hears himself whimpering as he pushes back even further into the contact, desperately trying to make the moment last as long as possible. 

There’s a long moment of silence, then, as Dean slumps damp and heavy against his back, one hand still pressed across the bloody mess of his stomach, and the other digging in hard against his hip, as Castiel struggles to make his muscles hold their bodies off the floor. Dean is panting softly against his ear, a gentle movement of air that sends chill across Castiel’s burning skin, and then an arm is wrapping solidly around his chest, nearly crushing the remaining air out of his lungs as Dean squeezes down hard, pushing their bodies even closer together as Dean presses his damp mouth to Castiel’s neck.

“You feel good against me like this, sweetheart.”

Covered in blood and semen and aching from the inside out, feeling wrecked in every possible way and still shaking from the sensation of Dean buried inside him, Castiel knows that the words have nothing to do with any kind of emotional connection, that Dean is simply just enjoying the base sensation of Castiel’s body pressed against his – and after two long years of fighting alone to keep the world from burning down, the sound of Dean’s voice whispered in his ear like that is enough to make Castiel’s eyes begin to burn from something that has absolutely nothing to do with physical pain. 

“Dean.”

There’s an unimpressed huff against his skin, and then Dean is scraping his teeth along the side of his neck, adding to the collection of marks already there and drawing a flinch from Castiel’s body, even as Dean’s arm around him holds him firmly in place.

“Yeah?”

“I want you back.”

There’s silence for another long moment, broken only by the soft movement of the fan above them, oddly loud now that that the room is no longer filled with the sounds of their voices and bodies coming together – and when Dean doesn’t pull away like Castiel had expected him to, something deep inside of him starts to feel shattered in a good way, and he sucks in an almost panicked breath as he gets the words out.

“I don’t want this to be the only time we do this. I want – I need you back in my life. I need to know that I don’t have to fight this war alone, that you’ll let me help you with more than just following leads, that you and I –”

“Shut the fuck up, Cas. You’re ruining my afterglow.”

It’s akin to those times when an angel’s blade has made contact with his skin, and Castiel can’t stop the punched out hurt noise that slides free of his lungs, can’t stop his stomach from seizing up and his skin from flashing hot as he finds himself suddenly bucking hard against Dean, the unexpected movement sending the hunter scrambling to keep hold of Castiel’s body. There’s a bitten out curse from behind him, and then Dean is sliding his spent penis free of Castiel’s body, a rough drag that sends a flash of pain across Castiel’s entire lower half – and then that pain is forgotten when Dean digs hard hands into his shoulders and turns him over, pressing him down hard against the cold floor and splaying a rough hand out across his chest. 

“What the fuck is your problem?”

Castiel tries to speak, tries to convey the multitude of emotions that are washing across his battered body, but his throat is itching and his eyes are burning and everything inside him hurts and _why did he ever think this was a good idea_ –

“Fucking hell, Cas.”

He doesn’t realize he’s breathing out something that sounds like a sob until soft lips are pressed against his own, swallowing up the sound and turning him inside out all over again, as the gentle touch screams through him in sharp contrast to everything else Dean has done to him tonight, leaving Castiel shaking against Dean and blinking hard against the moisture in his eyes. Then, breaking the kiss with only the tiniest hint of teeth, Dean climbs to his feet and stares down at him for a long moment, naked and covered in blood and without a single flicker of human expression behind his eyes, despite the gentle way his lips had just been moving against Castiel’s.

“Don’t fucking ask me to talk feelings, Cas. Not when I’m like this. Come to me when I’m back in one soulful piece, and maybe then you’ll get the answer you want.”

And as Dean turns to walk away from him – as he crosses the room to where his clothes are, leaving Castiel to lie naked and aching on the cold iron floor, his eyes still burning and his lips still tingling from the shock of Dean’s mouth against his own – Castiel closes his eyes, a moment of desperate hope flaring up inside him – because despite the world of pain that has been done to him tonight, a promise to talk when this is all over is still better than anything Castiel has gotten from Dean in years, and that promise alone makes every smear of blood across his skin worth it.


End file.
